


The Price of Redemption

by Toshi_Nama



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Home, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-24 11:54:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20705564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toshi_Nama/pseuds/Toshi_Nama
Summary: Kirkwall is on a precipice - but so are some of those who live there.  When Merrill and Fenris abandon Hawke to take care of something more important...they both find far more than the chaos they try to stop.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tatteredleaf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tatteredleaf/gifts), [Tafka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tafka/gifts).

“Elf, I need your help.”

Fenris looked across the cards at Varric. There was no way his voice would be so tentative if the dwarf had faith that he would be willing to do so. “Help with what?”

“Daisy.”

He fought down his anger. “What has she done this time?”

“Shit,” Varric sighed. “Maybe I shouldn’t have asked, but...look, it’s this. She hasn’t left her house in two weeks. Not since everything happened.”

‘Everything.’ He liked the dwarf, but sometimes his habit of never saying anything straight out was infuriating. It was a very pretty way of saying ‘since Merrill’s former clan tried to kill her, forcing Hawke, Aveline, and Varric to defend her.’ His jaw clenched; it was too easy to see the clan as he had last seen Seheron – bodies strewn across rocks and grass, blood everywhere – he forced the memory back. “Very well.”

He ignored the prattling as they walked from the Hanged Man’s comfortable dinginess through Lowtown and down the stairs to the Alienage. Even Fenris had to acknowledge there was a comfort in being only one of many. Those thoughts faded as they moved closer to the small apartment Merrill had made her own.

Varric knocked.

When he heard a short scream followed by a shattering crash, Fenris ignored courtesy and pushed the door in. “Merrill!” His command was answered by sobs. Turning the corner, he saw the floor littered with a patchwork of glass shards, half of them coated in blood, and the elf in question rocking herself in their midst.

“Dwarf! Go get bandages.” He glanced around. “And water, whiskey, and some bread.” Merrill had nothing on the bare shelves.

“Fenris?” Of course Varric would ask questions.

“Go.”

He didn’t wait for the door to close before crouching awkwardly near her. “Merrill.” He wasn’t a confidant – or even a friend. Why had he stayed rather than Varric? He grabbed her sheet and started to tear it into strips. “You are bleeding.”

“So? Why would you care? I’m a monster. I did everything for them, and this is what it’s gotten me.” Between the sobs and her accent, she was nearly incomprehensible. “I shouldn’t have fought.”

At least he was in armor, Fenris noted as he moved toward her, pulling her arms far enough from her also-bleeding torso so he could pick pieces of glass from Merrill’s hands. He swallowed his first response; agreement. His second was equally unhelpful. Instead of speaking, he sighed and kept picking out the glass, daubing at the rents with what was left of her sheet.

“Do you have any healing salves?”

“Why does it matter? I should have died. Not her. Why didn’t she trust me?”

He refused to lie. This question also deserved an answer. “The Keeper. She was important to you?”

Merrill sniffled. “She was like a mother. Not just to me, to all of us.”

His eyes closed of their own volition, but he kept his movements steady. “Then I am sorry.”

“No you’re not,” she retorted. “She’s just another mage to you. Why would you be sorry she’s dead?”

Except from what Merrill said, and from the clan’s reaction, she wasn’t. She was more than ‘just’ a mage, and she had done what she could to convince the woman in front of him of the insane risk in her plans. But on the other side, it was true. “I’m not sorry she’s dead,” he admitted. The Keeper had been nothing to him. “I’m only sorry she died for you.”

_ “What?”  _

Well, he now had her complete attention. If only he was so focused. Shadows of Seheron moved in his mind. He shook his head and focused on the  _ now _ . “Let’s hope the sacrifice of someone who cared for you that much isn’t wasted.”

“Is that supposed to be comforting? It’s not, you know.”

“No. Words aren’t much comfort. But it is true.”

The door opened again, thankfully. He didn’t need to say anything further.

“Daisy? Andraste’s balls, what happened? Did the mirror fall?”

Her voice dropped. “I suppose. I shattered it. All it’s done is brought me grief. The clan never wanted it, and now they’re gone. They’re all gone.”

As soon as Fenris managed to make her drink more whiskey than she could handle, he and Varric used the remainder on her hands, then bandaged them. He picked up the tiny woman and dropped her onto her pallet. 

“Shit, elf. She’d spent years working on that thing.”

It had taken a mother’s death – and then the others – for her to realize her dedication was blinding her to reality. Fenris winced away from that thought as well. “Clean it up and remove it.” He glanced down. Would so much alcohol make her sick? “I’ll watch her.”

**

He wondered why he was here as he knocked briefly on the warped door. It opened. “Oh! Oh.”

He watched her.

“Oh...come in, do. I don’t have much...or anything really.” Merrill shuffled cracked dishes around. “Though I don’t think you’d want anything. I must be a monster to you.”

“If you thought that, why invite me in?”

“You tell me the truth. Hawke says none of it's my fault, Isabela changes the subject, and Varric just makes me eat. Oh, and then there's Anders.” She went quiet, then moved on almost as expeditiously as he would have. “So there's really no one else to talk to.”

That was a reasonable assessment, he had to acknowledge. “There is no one in the Alienage?”

“No. You’ve seen how they look at me. They want something, and I don’t know what, and I can’t answer it. I’m not Marethari, I’m just me.”

There were scars along her arms – Fenris knew how to look for them. None, however, were fresher than the lines across her hands from shattering the mirror. He looked up and met her eyes. “I don’t think you are a monster,” he said honestly. “I think you were an idiot.”

In private, she didn’t flush, stammer, or protest. Instead, her eyes glistened. “Yes,” she agreed, “I was. But there’s nothing I can do to change the past.”

“No,” he murmured around his own memories, “there is not. I have bread and cheese.”

“I have tea. Well.” She paused. “I have water.”

He could drink water.

They’d eaten quietly for a bit before Merrill broke the silence. “Thank you for coming, but why?”

Why _ had _ he come? Fenris searched for a reasonable answer. “The Alienage. The Dalish. Tevinter has neither. Elves are nothing but slaves. I want to understand.” He saw her face. “If it is too painful, I apologise.”

She shook her head. “No, I can tell you what I know. The Clans don’t really talk about the Alienages, though. I don’t know much more than you.”

He gestured around her painfully clean hovel. “You live here.” He didn’t.

“That is true. There are things that are the same. I didn’t want to believe, but they’re there. Both the elves in the alienages and the Dalish try to keep what they can of our history.” For a moment, at least, she showed signs of life and actual interest. “The Dalish have more, but we are fewer. The hahrens are something we both have. The hahren is the storyteller, the lore of the Clan. Keepers lead and seek out knowledge. We remember. The hahrens share the stories that everyone needs to know.”

He nodded, intrigued even if his request for knowledge had been more of an excuse to watch her than he wanted to admit.


	2. Destruction

The mood of the city was worse than ever. Fenris glanced around the courtyard in front of the Chantry. The Knight-Commander and First Enchanter were at it again, but this was not where the city was even a year ago. Then, people were willing to listen to the Grand Cleric. Hawke kept trying to maintain neutrality – foolish, if well-intentioned. What could he add? They were both wrong.

He shifted, rubbing at his neck.

Then he realized – it wasn’t his neck, it was his  _ brands.  _ Something was happening. The Abomination moved forward to interrupt the argument. “There can be no compromise.” His brands itched again, tightening against his skin. The Abomination slammed his staff against the flagstones again, and he took a step back. “There can be no peace.”

Only now did Hawke seem to realize what he’d supported. “Anders? What have you done?”

Fenris glanced to his left and met Merrill’s eyes. The same knowledge learned from bloody mistakes showed in her eyes. Whatever the Abomination had done was worse. It was deliberate.

She gasped, her eyes dragged forward by something. As he followed her gaze, he realized she must have felt it through the Fade first. Light exploded up from the Chantry, reaching for the Veil and the Maker in some twisted mockery of the Chantry’s purpose.

Then everything exploded.

He dove toward Merrill, shoving her aside just before the first stones hit. They were nothing more than powder. The bigger ones were still coming.

“What – oh!” They were lucky – a head-sized chunk of limestone did nothing more than crash into the corner of his backplate. He grunted.  _ She _ pushed herself to her feet as soon as the thudding stopped, then ran out of the courtyard.

One moment. That was all it took to hear the rage in the Knight-Commander’s voice, and the placation in Hawke’s. He knew where Merrill was going after their conversations over the past months. She may still have felt set apart from the various residents of Kirkwall, but she was going to protect those who would only suffer for someone else’s need for blood.

The Alienage.

**

It was a bloody place. The vhenadahl was still standing, but a branch had been torn down by half a window-frame, the stone still carved almost as purely as when it stood on the face of the tower. There were fewer screams here. The elves may not have been slaves in Kirkwall, but they expected only tragedy and senseless violence. Fenris burned with fury, and moved toward a wailing woman clawing at what was left of her home. The Abomination...no, it was meaningless now.

“My daughter!”

_ A child.  _ Merrill was here – he could feel his brands reacting to her magic – but he didn’t see her. Here was someone who needed help. “Move.” As soon as she was out of the way, he threw his own strength at the beams and pieces of wall, stepping carefully to keep from disturbing the lower layers and perhaps killing who he was attempting to save.

It was painful work, lit by fire and later by the glow of his brands as he used what Danarius had done to save rather than take life. It let his hands get beneath and through blockages he couldn’t have gotten a hold on otherwise, though it left pieces of flesh behind. It didn’t matter when he heard the thin cry beneath him.

“Azale! Oh, my Azale!”

“Stay back!” The pile was unsteady, and her presence would only make his work harder. Fenris ignored the rest, studying each piece carefully before taking his next step. “Patience, child. I will free you.”

He had to. There had to be a way to save some life, somewhere.

No sooner had he pulled the battered child from the rubble than his brands flared. More magic, and this time not some that could be seen as helpful. Whatever the Abomination had set loose had struck the rest of the city. The fool and his cause; the only blood shed would be that of others. “Let go, child. Go to your mother.” It took both of them to pry the girl’s thin arms from around his neck. He handed them a healing potion, hoping it would help, then drew his sword.

It was an abomination, though not the one he’d wanted dead for years. This one was visibly twisted – only experience showed him what was left of an elven man underneath it. A mage, perhaps one that remembered only that this was once his home? It mattered not. With a cry, Fenris charged, trusting to his brands and aggression to make himself the more tempting target than those helpless around him. He didn’t duck, but let painful experience flare him into a ghostly form to avoid the first strike, then his blade dove into the thing’s shoulder. A short exchange later it perished, only to be replaced by others. 

Abominations, spirits, and a handful of looters were drawn to the small circle of defenseless people and terror. He stood in the entrance, snarling. 

A rumble of rock passed his right ear, driving one back before he could get a dagger between Fenris’ ribs.

He would worry about the rocks later. Fenris smashed through that abomination, ignored the spirit that had suddenly become a grotesque statue itself, and continued fighting. Various pieces of debris joined the fight, adding a new layer of chaos.

Once it was done, he turned, breathing heavily.

“I’m sorry about the door.” Ah, yes, he hadn’t quite dodged that particular magic-born projectile. Merrill reached out, though at least she was too far away to touch him. “It was supposed to hit –”

Fenris shook his head. “Enough. Without your assistance, it would have been a harder fight.” The door had hurt, but it had also thrown him out of range of the lone woman using a crossbow and shrieking profanities and blame at the ‘knife-ears.’ There was more to do. “Guard the entrance. Call if more come.” He pointed three people who seemed healthy enough toward the discarded weapons, sheathed his, and moved back into the Alienage proper. Battle-fury was channeled to the other task: saving those he could.

**

He staggered toward the Alienage entrance, fatigue-drunk and hardly able to lift his sword.

“Fenris.”

Her gait wasn’t any better, but there was no one still trapped – at least, no one there was any hope for. Merrill made it to his side, close enough to keep any conversation private.

“We don’t know how bad the rest of the city is. Besides, there might be more trouble. Stay here. Please.”

“Where?” His voice was hoarse, sharper than he intended. “There aren’t enough beds for those who live now.”

Color rose to contrast against her vallaslin. “My home. I don’t need the bed,” she hurried on, “I’m used to sleeping on the ground, and then we’re both somewhere the others can find us if something happens. There’s no one else with your skills, not after the purge three years ago.”

‘The purge.’ It was also known as the Qunari invasion despite the fact the Arishok had been here for years before everything came to blood. Even he hadn’t suspected how many elves the Ben Hassrath had managed to convert until he’d found himself cutting through them. Fenris looked around and grudgingly gave Merrill the point. There were a handful of men, mostly crippled, and a double-handful of women who’d at least some coordination to use the various weapons the attackers had reluctantly provided. If another concentrated attack came, the defenders would fall.

“You don’t have to give me your bed.” He made his slow way toward her house, somehow mostly in one piece. She matched his painful steps. “I have also slept on floors most of my life.” It was better and more peaceful than what he’d endured when he’d been ordered to share a bed.

“It’s not that bad, really it isn’t. I don’t mind at all. I’ll have mana again fairly soon, and you did most of the work here. That way, if they ask for help, I’ll be first.” She sighed. “Their hahren died, I think. They’ll look to me, I know they will.”

He forced open the canted door, then held it for her. “Is that such a bad thing?” She blinked over at him. “You have seen combat; you have also been taught leadership, have you not?”

“There is that.” Merrill slurred the words. “Go and sleep, Fenris.”

**

The bed was thin and not particularly comfortable – but that was its own sort of comfort. His best guess was that he managed three hours of sleep before a hand shook his shoulder. Fenris had her pinned against the wall before he finished waking. “Oh.” Merrill’s eyes were wide. “I...apologize.”

Fatigue dragged at him, but he doubted she would have woken him without reason. “What is it?”

As soon as he let her go, she sagged. “Another gang,” she gasped. “I drove them off once, but I don’t have any more mana.”

“Sleep.” He buckled his breastplate and shoved his boots back on, abandoning the rest of his armor for endurance. Against gangs, it shouldn’t be necessary.

He glanced back once. She had fallen into the spot of warmth he’d left, already snoring faintly.  _ Out of mana.  _ Even under duress, she hadn’t returned to blood magic. Maybe the Keeper’s sacrifice had accomplished what her exiling Merrill had not – or perhaps she had realized it on her own once she no longer had the Keeper to rebel against. He buckled on his baldric and blade, and stepped out into the shadows of false dawn.

By the time the various gangs, furious members of the ‘Guard,’ abominations, Templars  _ hunting  _ abominations, and one mob certain that the Alienage was hiding the cause of all of this were driven off, the fires had died out. Fenris glanced around the wreckage. Only a few homes were still whole; another handful had taken minimal damage, such as Merrill’s. For the rest? The vhenadahl at the center of the Alienage was living despite the lost branches, but the small shrine was gone. The homes to the north had been lost as well – charred rubble showed where they once leaned against each other for support.

“Ser?”

He turned to look at the woman whose daughter he’d saved the night before.

She started again when he said nothing, her eyes almost downcast. “Ser, we have no one to do the rites or even find out who is...gone.”

Why was the woman concerned about rites before shelter and other needs? He pulled out one of the small pouches of coin life as a fugitive had taught him to keep ready. This one, when he checked, had copper and a few silver. Nothing much, but it was coin that an elf wouldn’t be challenged for carrying. “Go. Buy what you can from the docks: fish –” as much as he hated it, it was cheap – “bread – or the Hanged Man. Tell Corff that I sent you and to send someone back with you.”

“For you, ser?”

“I am no ser.” Her deference itched at him. “No,” he continued, “for the people here. Fires are not safe, and much has been destroyed.”

He looked around again and tried not to think about how much had been lost, only a few years after mobs had burned down much of what remained after the Arishok attempted to take the city. “Wake Merrill in…” He thought back to his experience with other mages. “Two hours, not before.” That should give her mana time to recover without risking the temptation of faster methods. He would not risk that, especially as she had clearly taken what happened on Sundermount to heart.

**

By silent agreement, they ate in the dubious privacy of Merrill’s hovel. “They called me ser.”

She nodded. “Of course they did.”

Fenris stared as he chewed the stale bread.

“What? You hadn’t realized? They don’t know vallaslin; you are an elf, your brands are something they don’t recognize, and you stand tall.” She sipped lukewarm water from a cracked cup. “They don’t know anything about Tevinter or magisters,” Merrill hurried on, “only the Alienage and stories of the wild Dalish. Arianni...never said much about the Clan while she and Feynriel lived here.”

“I am no different than they are.”

The bald statement drew a small, pained smile from his lunch companion. “Neither am I,” she said quietly, “but they need me to be. They need something to believe in.”

Somehow she’d hidden her own unease, even as she led rites over the bodies they’d recovered. Unease? Fenris took himself to task before he could snort. Whatever pride Merrill had, it wasn’t the sort that required constant adulation. He had enough memories of Danarius to recognize the difference. If anything, she still assumed others would reject her, despite...

He took another bite, then stood abruptly.

“Fenris?”

“There is debris, and more bodies to recover. You can find me there.”

**

It was gruelling work. They needed to keep some of the able-bodied ready to drive away looters, and collect food while the rest grieved, tended to the injured, and tried to take account of the damage.

On the second day, the pile of rubble, Chantry granite, and torn beams slid under his feet. As he scrabbled to keep steady,  _ something  _ gripped his feet. He fought with himself as his brands burned in the presence of magic. It took another three breaths to rein in his own painful ‘gift.’ After so much time he should have recognized the feel of Merrill’s magic, and it was the only reason he didn’t crack his wrist as the debris shifted.

Even though it no longer had the painful whine of blood magic, it was still uncomfortable.

“I’m fine.”

Even after her magic released his ankles, the burn of it holding the pile steady made him grit his teeth. He was used to pain and ignored it; this time, the magic was something both practical and useful. He returned to work, levering the beams over to other helpers until it flickered beneath him.

“I have to let go of the spell, or it will break on its own,” Merrill called out, her voice tight. “Everyone back!” Fenris ordered the others. He didn’t hurry, but he also didn’t hesitate to move, pulling one man back with him. They were clear before the slip Merrill had delayed began again. As soon as it stopped he was back to it, pulling apart what he could.

“Anything useful, put by the vhenadahl. Everything else, near the entrance. Narrow it.”

The others did as he suggested. They couldn’t rebuild until they knew what there was to rebuild  _ with.  _

It wasn’t until supper that he realized it wasn’t a suggestion he’d given, but a command.

“They obeyed me.”

“Remember?” Merrill tried a watery smile over her tea. “They think you’re Dalish.”

“I’m not.”

“Your markings...I know they’re not, but the people here don’t know the difference.” Something about this conversation felt familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. Her voice dropped. “You’re also confident, and a warrior. They don’t know what else to think of you.”

Tea was vile without either whiskey or at least honey, but drinking it was better than responding. He swallowed the near-scorching liquid. They thought he was  _ Dalish?  _ That...explained so much. The distance. The...respect. He’d not expected that.

“Confidence is so rare?”

Merrill nodded, not looking at him. “It is. It’s...I fit in better, here, I think.”

He considered her – and how the others had been reacting to them both. “You do,” he acknowledged, “now, at least. You have changed.”

Her fingers twisted into the bread in a flurry of stale crumbs, then she stilled them and looked up, holding his gaze. “I had to. It was that or give up, and...and I couldn’t do that. Not after what you said. Not after what Marethari did.”

“It’s our job to remember,” Fenris quoted back at her.

“Even the unpleasant things. Yes. If we don’t, then who will?”


	3. To Rebuild

The Hanged Man had a fresh coat of blood-stains on the floor, Corff was sporting a faded green shirt instead of his usual red, and the bar had some scorch marks along the side facing the now-patched wall. Other than that, he could have been walking into the past.

“Dwarf.”

Varric looked up, surprised. “Elf! I wasn’t expecting to see you again.”

He didn’t even argue. It had been two weeks since Hawke had sided with the Abomination and fought to save the mages of the Circle – the mages who then betrayed him with blood magic from the First Enchanter himself. Fenris didn’t ask what had happened to him – he wasn’t here drinking with Varric, so he was either dead, drunk in the estate, or had vanished along with Anders in the aftermath. It was meaningless to him. “Things have been busy.”

“I heard rumors of a pack of slavers.”

Fenris shook his head. He hadn’t – but he’d been busy. Maybe he ought to hunt them down, after –

It made his request more important. “I need your help with something else.”

“Oh? What now? Bianca’s oiled and ready.”

“Not that. I need money.”

Varric blinked, then chuckled. “Everyone wants money, elf. You need to be more specific.”

Fenris shook his head, frustrated with himself. “No, not money. I need supplies. Wood cut to beams, plaster, hay, and vegetables. Milk, if possible. One of the babies isn’t doing well, and her mother died in the explosion.” “What are you doing, making a neighborhood?”

“Bandages, too, and healing herbs.” Fenris ran a hand through his hair, permanently mussed at this point. “The Alienage was badly damaged, and it is a target for gangs and other criminals. I also doubt it’s on the Seneschal's list of priorities.”

Varric snapped his mouth shut. “I can’t manage that much. Not the wood.”

“Take it from Danarius’ estate.” It had been his home for the past six years, and no one had tried to take it from him. Most of the fancy nonsense was still in there. Now, it would have a purpose.

“Are you sure, elf?”

No, he wasn’t, but what other resources did he have? “Yes. I only use two rooms. Take what you want from the rest.”

**

Fenris narrowed his eyes at the damned mage. Pale, sweaty, and leaning heavily on her staff, she was still trying to cast more. Despite her clear mana exhaustion, she hadn’t pulled a knife – she didn’t carry one any longer.

“What are you doing?”

Merrill turned and almost tipped over. Fenris folded his arms to keep from doing anything rash. “Oh! Fenris, I hadn’t expected you back so soon. The beams need to be held steady, and that means…”

That meant she used magic – and more, a branch that wasn’t natural to her – to prop them up while the others in the Alienage worked. How many? He didn’t even glance around; he’d already seen how many roofs were ready for shingles or thatch. “Where is Sophoris?”

She blinked.

He turned to the others clustered around. “Fannian?”

“At the docks. There’s a warehouse that’s getting rebuilt, and the coin is good.”

“Coin is good, Fenris, but I can’t see what that has to do with this – there’s no way we can pay to have someone…”

No. He was not having this conversation, especially when Merrill’s eyes couldn’t focus. 

“Fannian, the beams are steady?” He waited just long enough for a nod before he took the last three steps to the former blood mage, pulled the staff from her nerveless hand, and dropped it just in time to catch the now off-balance woman.

She’d lost weight over the months since – well, so had he, but not enough to make her more difficult to pick up. For the sake of the respect she’d built in the Alienage, he didn’t sling her over his shoulder. Scooping her into his arms, he ignored her slurred protests. She’d spent so much of her mana that his brands didn’t even react to her despite the physical contact.

“Work on what you can reach. For the higher beams, wait for Sophoris and follow his instructions.” Fenris threw the words over his shoulder at Fannian and the others as he moved toward Merrill’s place.

“Oh.” Merrill’s babbling stopped with that single word.

Stupid damned mage. His mind spun through curses in Tevene, Trade, and now Elven as he marched to her home. One of the children rushed ahead and opened the door.

“Thank you,” he said absently as he walked in and kicked it shut behind him. No, it didn’t matter how much she’d sweated. He wasn’t going to strip her, and she wasn’t able to stand to wash herself. He dropped her onto her bed.

She tried to slither off the side.

“Stay.”

“But I need…” Damned woman.

One hand was enough to flatten her against the mattress again. He stepped to the other end of the bed and started unlacing her boots. “You need to rest or you’ll make mistakes. Slower is better.” He sighed as he saw her crestfallen expression. Fasta vass. “Mage, you are needed here, but others can also do their part. Magic is not always the solution.”

“Oh.”

He dropped her boots on the floor, then went to start a small fire in the hearth to make tea. One moment of thought reinforced that she wouldn’t be awake that long, so he poured water, added a little wine for flavor, and cut a chunk of bread and cheese to put on a plate. She’d struggled up to one elbow, but nothing else.

“Eat,” he said gently. “I’ll get a chicken.” She’d need rest and real food to recover.

“Fish is nice,” Merrill replied, far too hopeful for his own good.

_ Fish.  _ “Perhaps.” So long as he could get someone else to cook it and bring it over while he went to the Hanged Man.

**

More weeks passed. Those who could returned to their work outside the Alienage. Merrill took charge of the children, telling them stories illuminated with tiny wisps: a mix of Dalish legends and the stories she persuaded the Alienage adults to share in the evenings. Fenris continued to work with the able-bodied who had no work to return to in the blasted city, trying to make sure each family had something that qualified as ‘shelter’ before the weather turned. There was a blessing in that it was still in the heat of summer: no one risked illness sleeping under the bare sky. The heat was also a curse as he and the others stripped into breeches and whatever bandages were necessary to cover the gashes and scrapes from their work the days before, the older children running errands or bringing buckets of mostly-clean water and beer from the kegs that ‘mysteriously’ appeared from the Hanged Man, receipts delivered with them.

When he could, he returned to sleeping in ‘his’ mansion, more echoing than ever. It wasn’t often, given how much the Alienage needed his particular skills. It also wasn’t required for his own comfort. Merrill had claimed some of the supplies and made a pallet for him where the eluvian had stood a lifetime ago. There was an irony that he now had somewhere to sleep because she’d destroyed the very thing that led her to her exile here, but it was one neither of them mentioned.

The Alienage had started calling Merrill ‘hahren.’ He didn’t object – nor did she. A hahren was a storyteller; she still forgot that it also meant much the same as ‘Keeper’ did among the clans. Well, when they needed a decision regarding protection, shelter, or resources, Fenris was usually able to supply a suggestion or direction of his own. He was one of the few who had both resources and experience using them, an ironic ‘gift’ of his time with Danarius and the years he’d spent on the run.

It wasn’t the only thing that had changed in the months since the Abomination tried to start a war and destroyed a city in the process. Things began to return to a new normal – more slowly than after the Arishok’s frustration boiled over, but surely all the same. Somehow, the rumors Varric passed on didn’t get followed up on – not unless the slavers were said to be close, or preying on elves.

Donnic was able to come back into the Hanged Man for more than a quick meal. It wasn’t diamondback, but it meant he could play Wicked Grace and for a few hours a week pretend that things were normal. Well, ‘normal’ given a chunk of the tavern was still missing and replaced by scavenged boards nailed to keep people from stealing from the bar, and the boards were widely stained by something much darker than ale.

“Thanks to your help, Varric, we’ve got most of the docks clear again.” Donnic breached the comfortable silence as he tossed in two chits and a pencil stub. By unspoken agreement, they hadn’t wagered coin since the incident. “The Templars have given what help they can as well.”

Fenris looked up from his cards. “What is this?”

The guard lifted his eyebrows as the dwarf under discussion muttered and vanished into his own hand. “You didn’t hear? Varric’s been coordinating donations for the most damaged areas. The docks came first; the harbormaster said they’d been damaged to the point most ships couldn’t come in with supplies. Things should start moving more quickly now, but it will take years.”

“Indeed.” Fenris rubbed briefly at the calluses he’d gotten from moving rocks rather than swordwork, the gash from a weak beam that had cracked when weight was put on it. Of all things… “I’m impressed, dwarf.”

“Don’t let it get around,” Varric muttered. “I never should have told you, Donnic.”

The dark-haired guard chuckled. “I was investigating to find out where the thefts were, Varric. You had no choice.”

“Well, there is that.” He tossed in another two carved circles – they didn’t play for coppers when the coppers were so stretched. “Back to important things, though. I think I might come into real money soon.”

“Who did you hold up?”

The dwarf leaned back with that grin – the grin that said someone just got fleeced. “No one, elf. Put your brooding and suspicion to one side. Sometimes, all you have to do is tell the right story to the right person.”

Fenris grunted. A high pair? He folded. He didn’t mind the banter, even if he lacked the patience to keep questioning his...friends. He supposed the two men were that.


	4. Home

Frost had come, but they’d managed. Everyone had a roof over their heads, though there were three homes where the ‘roof’ was part sailcloth. It had shown up in Merrill’s front room when he was out with now-Knight-Commander Cullen training. The material was Isabela’s work if he were to guess, especially as it came with a damned cat. At least the thing slept most of the time he was here; when it didn’t, it was usually chasing one of Merrill’s wisps rather than insisting on distracting him.

The frantic work over the last few weeks had slowed, and he didn’t feel like leaving the table and supper to walk up the no doubt icy stairs to reach Hightown. He could feel the fatigue and considered simply sleeping in the room here. There was no one injured or ill enough to use it tonight. Merrill’s arms had remained unscarred, even as his picked up new ones across his brands.

“I’ll clear the table.”

Fenris stood when Merrill started to bustle – it was easier given how cramped the space was – and leaned against the wall. He’d brought the stew from the Hanged Man, but the bread had been made here in the Alienage. There was finally enough to share.

The clatter faded, but his eyes were focused on the elves outside the small apartment rather than the one within. Everything they needed flowed in front of him, most of it finally checked off of an invisible list.

Of all the reactions Fenris had expected when he closed his eyes and sighed, a pair of lips against his own was not among them. This was folly. He knew it. He tried to push her away, but his traitor hands pulled her closer. He tried to pull back, but his traitor lips demanded more, his nostrils filled with an unexpectedly floral scent. 

Madness. She was everything he hated, but even in his own mind that argument rang hollow against the months they’d spent struggling to help others rebuild what they didn’t truly understand. When he returned to his abandoned seat, she wound up straddling him. Her own hands were more restrained than his, and it didn’t matter. The worn wood of the bench was immaterial. When she broke the kiss with a gasp, her back arching slightly, he failed again to make the wise choice. Instead of apologizing, Fenris bent his own head just enough to taste the column of her throat, to kiss the pulse now racing in time with his.

Her fingers clenched in his hair, and his hands slid under her shirt. As their lips met again, he undid the knot of her breastband and waited for her response. Merrill murmured deep in her throat. It was too much; he couldn’t resist sliding up along her ribs and brushing against her breasts.

Her hands pulled up his shirt; he lifted his arms, then realized what he was doing. When Fenris stood and took her with him, he couldn’t keep himself from holding her hips. If only it was to steady her; that was only a side benefit. He pulled enough away to look at her. “This is a bad idea.”

“It’s a terrible idea,” Merrill agreed, but the words kept tumbling out in her lilting voice. “But I want to anyway. I’m tired of being alone, and we both deserve…”

He couldn’t recapture her eyes. “Deserve?”

“Happiness,” she sighed, “at least for a moment.” For the first time, her fingers traced along his brands.

Fenris hissed at the sensation. Danarius had wanted them sensitive to magic – and sensitive they were. Braided pain and desire hit him like a fist.

“Oh! Oh, I’m sorry…” She snatched her hands back. “I didn’t think – does it hurt? I should stop. I don’t want that.”

It was too much. Danarius had never apologized, had never cared for  _ his  _ needs, his happiness. The last frayed strand of reason snapped. 

_ Merrill had already said she wanted more.  _ His mouth found hers again, this time far from chaste or tentative exploration, and he slid his hands up her sides, taking  _ her  _ shirt with him.

Clothes fell along the way to her pallet. Each moment, the mage was careful to not touch his brands; on her bed, his fingers entwined with hers above her head, her legs wrapped around his waist. It felt...he’d never known sex like this. Her mouth explored his skin as eagerly as he did hers, save when she gasped broken phrases in Elven.

When she cried out – fasta  _ vass,  _ he’d never felt anything like it. It wasn’t long until he followed her, muffling his own groan against her neck.

After, he listened to his pounding heartbeat, refusing to let the rational part of his mind return. Not now. He was as foolish as he accused her of being, but...not now. Instead, he tucked the sheet between his chest and her hand. 

Merrill sighed softly, heavy-lidded eyes refusing to open, and stretched one leg over his. “In the morning…” Whatever she’d meant to add was lost to sleep.

In the silence of her soft breathing, he let himself pull one fragment of a memory back out of his heart. She’d  _ apologized.  _ There had been no intentional pain, only…

She’d asked.

In the morning, Merrill would again be a mage, and his sense would return. For now, in privacy, he treasured the moment.

**

Sense returned before he was ready. Fenris eased off the pallet, pausing long enough to tuck the blanket more closely around the mage within before collecting his clothes. He scrubbed the scent of her from his skin, then dressed. He was hard at work fitting a more solid door onto Farrion’s house when she emerged.

She flushed, but said nothing.

He did his best to ignore her presence. Eventually, he heard Merrill’s lilt as one of the children asked if there would be lessons today. “Of course. Lessons and stories. We were going to have a weaving lesson, weren’t we? Then we’ll all have scarves for the winter!”

**

Once enough days had passed, it was as though the momentary madness had not occurred. Merrill didn’t stutter or flush, and he was able to meet her eyes, even over private meals. That was a good thing. It was for the best. 

“...it is frustrating.”

Merrill didn’t do what he’d hoped and commiserate. Instead, she giggled.

With a disgusted noise, Fenris glared. “What, mage?”

“She wants to be like you.” Her mirth faded just slightly as a hint of shadow softened her eyes. “Is that so bad?”

Like him?  _ Him?  _ He – he stopped before he finished the thought, taking the moment to turn it around. The girl he’d saved from the wreckage didn’t know him as a slave, or a tool, or a toy. He wasn’t a bloody-handed warrior. What  _ she  _ saw in her dark little eyes was the man who ‘stood tall,’ who’d helped her and her mother, who’d repaired their cousin’s home. She’d seen a man who didn’t tower over the other elves, but worked alongside them and insisted they stand just as tall.

For a moment, another giggling girl loomed in memory, one who worked to teach  _ him  _ how to weave – not wool, but vines and leaves. His nostrils widened as he smelled the heavy, foetid air again, leavened only by sea-salt.

No.

“Fenris?”

That was when he realized he was standing. “I...am sorry.” It was close to the anniversary – he’d never remembered the exact date. There was no Danarius to give him orders now, no one who would expect obedience. No, he couldn’t – not now. He couldn’t remember, even as he vowed this time would be different.

Pain shot through with husky desire tore his mind back to the present. She was pressed against the wall, wide-eyed, his glowing hand at the ready…

_ No.  _

Breathing hard, Fenris looked at her and struggled for his control. She’d touched him. That was the only...possible...she was right there, so close. It would be so easy, and even he wasn’t sure which reaction he considered. “I…”

“Wait!”

He turned and fled.

**

Two days later, he answered the door of his estate to see Merrill wrapped in the most hideous scarf he’d seen.

“I brought dinner. Lunch, actually, but it might even be breakfast if you haven’t…” She took a breath as he stared. She started over. “People were starting to worry. I said I’d check on you. I can leave the basket, but I’d rather not.”

They had worried. About him. Fenris ignored the warmth; it must have been a stray breeze twisting the fire’s heat into streamers through the echoing hall. “Come in.”

Merrill stared, wide-eyed; she’d never come in before. “It’s rather spare,” she finally managed, wincing as her footsteps clattered after her. “Simple.”

It was empty. He hadn’t realized how much so until someone joined him. More, someone he’d known in shabbier but warm surroundings. The only sounds were the two of them; this part of Hightown had always been less populous, and the repeated swirls of death and battle had only increased that over the years. It wasn’t until she was sitting across a table in the cavernous room that he realized his ears were searching for the sounds of children laughing, or at least Lornari’s whining snores.

Without anything further said, he walked at her side back down the steps to Lowtown, and then the further descent to the Alienage. The others smiled or nodded; Azale darted into her house. Instead of thinking, he watched the mage at his side. Where she had been the isolated remnant of her lost clan, now she was giggling at something one of the women said, then picking up and dusting off a boy that tripped at her feet, all without stopping.

This was…

This was everything he’d once tried to find in an isolated village overgrown with palms and ferns, a village under siege on all sides. This was everything  _ her  _ supposed People couldn’t be to her, everything she’d dove headlong into madness and blood magic to prove she’d deserved.

He’d drawn his sword more recently than she’d sliced open a palm or forearm, but for both of them, the blood had started to fade.

Azale ran out, laughing – and his heart stopped. She’d found a piece of charcoal, and drawn flowing lines across her face...her neck...her hands. Marks like his, or like Merrill’s? In a ten-year-old’s lines without a mirror, he couldn’t tell. A brief glance that Merrill returned, and he bent to her height.

“No, Azale.”

Her face fell. He couldn’t bear it.

With a lyrium-branded finger, he tipped her chin up enough to make the girl look at him again. “You’ll find your own mark, child,” he stated as gently as he could. “You don’t need ours.”

Merrill joined him, brushing away part of it and re-drawing it with a piece of – of course she’d have chalk in a pocket in the middle of winter. Why wouldn’t she? Instead of following the original line, it made a tight bloom at her temple. “There,” she said, “much better. You’re too lively for winter, you know? You move faster than the vhenadahl’s sap in the spring!”

That evening, he glared at Merrill until the mage sat at the table and let him do the washing-up. The sounds that had once chafed at his memories soothed them. Did they do the same for her? A glance over at her, and he watched her moving hands relax when the whining snort punctuated the dark outside her drawn curtain.

She’d found a people, a place that accepted her as who she’d made herself.

So had he.

It could never erase the blood on either of their hands, he knew – but it shouldn’t. Those scars were a part of them. Without it, would Merrill…

“You’ve done your Keeper proud.”

Startled, Merrill looked at him. Slowly, she shook her head. “No, I never did. But I think I’ve done her honor. All she wanted was for me to remember the people first, not the history. If only she’d said so. If only I’d listened.”

Fenris walked away from the dishes and ran one wet hand along her cheek. “You can’t change the past.”

“No,” she sighed, “not even when you want to. So I decided to remember it.” Her smile flickered. “It’s what a Keeper does.”

His lips brushed hers. “Even the unpleasant parts. But this isn’t one of those.”


End file.
